


seeing bodies drop every time I close my eyes

by waterwalle



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Bigotry & Prejudice, Consensual Underage Sex, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Graphic Description, Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Regulus Black-centric, Seer Regulus Black, Underage Drinking, Underage Drug Use, Violence, evan rosier is a good friend, lol, regulus black needs therapy, regulus is not the best dude in this, there i can spell
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:21:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27516004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waterwalle/pseuds/waterwalle
Summary: inspired by prompt one from @regulusprompts on tumblrhe has always seen things that he wasn't supposed too, he would of thought that he was insane, if it wasn't for the fact that what he sees always has the bad habit of being true. sometimes he wishes he was just insane.regulus black has been able to see peoples deaths for most of his life, images of dead bodies and unseeing eyes constantly attacking him
Relationships: Regulus Black/James Potter
Comments: 7
Kudos: 61





	seeing bodies drop every time I close my eyes

His tongue is bitter in his mouth. Bitter, in the dirty way like he hadn’t brushed his teeth the night before, which he probably didn’t, or he thinks, couldn’t based on the wine and vodka bottles that surround his bed. His head is pounding in a way that he is more than used to and his eyes feel glued shut. It takes him at least two minutes to open his eyes and when he does he has to shut them again from the sun shining down on him. He knows that the sun isn't bright here in the house of Black corner of England, yet what's left of its brightness burns. 

What he remembers from last night is very blurry if anything. There was a family dinner he thinks, with stiff backs and straight tight lips, Sirius and Mother who were staring down each other like they were the vermin of the earth, which in their heads, they probably were. A few sharp words (WORTHLESS YOUR JUST WORTHLESS SO YOU KNOW HOW SELFISH YOU ARE- IM THE SELFISH ONE ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME-)and voices raised later Regulus had shut himself in his room. His father had looked at everything with an apathetic look in his eyes, dead and cold as he stared at his family. Regulus thinks, that out of every one he will care the least when his father dies.  


He doesn’t love his father and he won’t miss him, he knows this. He doesn’t love his mother, really either, she hasn’t been a mother in a long time, but he still somewhat remembers the days when she would take Sirius and him out in the garden. With the sun that lightened up everything, leaving his face warm. With the soft grass and the fresh fruit. When his mother, who had still looked young and beautiful and had very faint smile lines around her eyes would chase him around the roses and honeysuckles with her laugh in the air and her hair trailing behind her. 

Now the garden is empty. All the flower lots dead and dried up. The grass is stingy and muddy and everything is dark. There are no more roses and honeysuckles and little children and their mothers here anymore. Everything now, in that garden that used to be his favorite place, is empty and damp. 

Back then everything was normal, when his Mother would run after Sirius and him with the honeysuckles shining yellow at them, he thinks, as he sits up with his back against his headboard, that maybe if everything had never happened it would still be like that. He knows, however, that this thought of his is naive and probably wrong, wishful thinking really.   
  
When she dies he might be sad. He doesn’t really know. Maybe it’ll depend on what he had drunk in the hours before. He thinks he will be, just because of the women she used to be, with loose hair and a smile on her face who had always stared at them like there couldn’t ever possibly be anything that they could do wrong. He would be sad just because she is his mother, no matter how much he'll hate her, she will always be his mother. 

His father however is different. Has always been different. There are no good memories from the before, no long summer days in the garden, no bedtime stories with the stars shining above. With his father, nothing really changed, with him there is no before and after. His father was the type of man that had an ageless face, that was just a bit too thin to be considered perfectly handsome, and black hair that was just turning gray. He had always been harsh, not through the bitting words or glares like his Mother but in the absence of it. In the absence of everything that should have been on his face as he stared at his family. 

So when his father dies. Which he knows comes in the flash of a bright green light; which has become a too popular way to die nowadays, he will not be sad. He will not mourn the person that he used to be like he will his mother, will not mourn the person that they are, or rather were, like his brother, he will not mourn at all. His father is a man that he has known ever since he was born and yet doesn’t know at all. 

As he struggles to get to his bathroom through the mess of bottles, weakly closed paint tubes, and split ashes from ashtrays he got from his uncle Alphard before he was outed as a queer and burned out of the family. Kreacher opens the door slowly without him really noticing the creaking.

He hears a slight “tut” from behind him and looks over his shoulder before continuing. As he looks in the mirror he sees his pale tired face. His normally neater hair is a mess, with loose messy curls that are sticking up and glued to his face because of his spit, his eyes are red-rimmed and his eye bags are a dark blue, to a point where it looks like he might have accidentally given himself a black eye in his sleep. 

He splashes water on his face and the cold makes his face burn, it also, however, makes him feel far more awake than before. As he looks at the mirror again he catches Kreacher walking through his room, vanishing the wine bottles and ashes, repairing and making sure everything is about the same as it was before he had gotten home for Yule. 

The old house-elf does this all the while muttering variations of “young master, being irresponsible, the young master knows this is not healthy, the young master being stupid”. Regulus chuffs out a laugh at him even though it burns his throat far more than it should. He mimics the elf as he walks to get a cigarette from his desk.

“ Kreacher knows young master doesn’t care about being healthy, Kreacher knows young master isn’t stupid, younger master wonders why dutiful Kreacher is being so mean to young master?” 

He says as he takes a deep breath and feels the smoke fill his lungs. It hasn’t burned in a long time, but he remembers when he would cough and hack after every use and how his lungs would feel like they were burning inside his body. Slowly like they were a smoked pig that his uncle would enjoy too much. Now, though the smoke in his lungs feels comforting more than anything, like molasses that smooths out his itching throat, that only really stings a little.

Kreacher gives either him or the cigarette a disapproving glare as the smoke unfurls in the air. His little body is hunched in over itself, the silk pillowcase that Regulus bought for him as a present is still white but it’s far too big on him to be fully comfortable and reaches the ends of his feet. Kreacher gives one last glare at the smoke, and tilts his chin up as if Regulus hadn’t been his favorite for years, gives one last pompous sniff as he says in a teasing voice,   
“no, young Master, is stupid.”  
And pops out of his room with a crack. 

He enjoys the old house-elves company. He has, at least with Regulus, lost the god-and can do no wrong idea that surrounds his family. It's nice to have someone that knows of his more unsavory habits, about the cigarettes, the potions, and the white powder that's hidden in the fake bottom in his art chest. Nice to have someone that helps him clear up the mess and fix the issues of the coke induced fights and arguments and mania. Kreacher deserves better, he knows this and when he’s sober and sad he will cry over it, over how Kreacher was the one who raised him after his mother stopped and he deserves better than being the person Regulus goes to when he needs to fix his problems, right now however he has too much of a hangover to fully care. 

He opens up his window and lets the fresh air in. Its nice, the air is chilled and cold and it makes him feel like he can breathe, even though he wasn’t really aware that he couldn’t. It makes his migraine lessen, the pounding against his skull being weaker and weaker as his lungs take in more oxygen. The air is slightly damp he realizes, and as he opens his eyes he see’s the rain puddles and the dark, damp look of everything from his view of the window. When he sticks his hand out the window he thinks he can feel a very light drizzle of rain against his fingertips, so light in fact that he doesn’t know if it’s there or not. 

He shuts his window and walks his body over to his bathroom again, striping off his rather wrinkled clothes. The water of his shower is burning hot and makes his pale skin red under its flames but it itches a something deep down in his muscles that makes him relax. He scrubs his skin with the almond scented soap that cost far too much until the skin of his body feels tight, works the shampoo in his hair until he sees the foam drip down from his hands just slightly tented pink and wonders if he had accidentally hit his head while he was blacked out. He slathers the conditioner and other hair potions his mother got him and washes them out again.

His mother has always cared very much about his and his brothers appearances, making sure they were always in the best clothes with the best hair and the best everything that money could buy. It’s a shame that she gave birth to him and Sirius. Sirius certainly cared about his appearances but he imagined the image was ruined for her the second he had put on a red and gold tie. He himself did, to some degree care, he was just busy doing what ever the fuck to care that much. 

So his mother was left with the best dressed Gryffindor and a Slytherin who more often than not looked like a walking corpse. Which some part of him thinks she deserves just for the fact that she’s vain in the first place. 

He steps out of the shower and looks in the mirror to check his head. He only sees a small bloody cut just behind his hairline and decides that he’s fine. He’s not very worried about his head, but wishes that at least he could get a pain relieving potion, but Kreacher hasn’t given him one since he fell down the stairs blacked out in an attempt to get him to stop. 

He has tried to stop for Kreacher. Multiple times really but it’s hard when you don’t see your inspiration to stop for most of the year. He always has a sense of guilt when he’s home, he thinks as he stumbles to put on clothes, guilt and shame that comes when ever Kreacher sees. It had gotten to a point where he couldn’t really look him in the eyes. He thinks its worse that Kreacher knows and his parents don’t. He thinks that if his parents do find out about everything than he would still care more about Kreachers opinion of him than theirs. 

His legs shake as he steps out of his room and walks quietly down the stairs. He hadn’t noticed before, not bothering to read the clocks in his room but as he walks down the hallways to the kitchen he reads a clock saying that it’s ten in the morning which is better than he could of hoped for especially since he's blanking on the night before.

As he steps into the kitchen he sees his brother sitting at the counter with a piece of dry toast in his mouth. He, if Regulus is being honest, which he often isn’t, looks worse than he himself does. He has an actual black eye unlike Regulus eye bags and his lips, which are twisted into a snarl, has a deep and ugly cut. 

He glares at Regulus as he get’s out an apple and a knife and the air is filled with an awkward heated silence, which Regulus decides immediately he hates, especially since he has no idea why Sirius would be glaring at him more than he normally does. He hopes, really, really, hopes that he didn’t do anything the night before. But as his brother finishes chewing his toast and spits out a deathly quiet,

“ Are you going to apologize?”

He knows that his cards are not good ones.

**Author's Note:**

> this is the first time i'm posting on Ao3 so plz be nice, i'm sorry if its bad lol. this is just the first chapter and I will try to update it semi-regularly 
> 
> I love you all <3 <3 <3 <3 <3


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